


endgame unlikely

by ochiai (gamblers)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M, and the person who said they would never let you go, are they still with you today?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamblers/pseuds/ochiai
Summary: Why you didn't stay.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	endgame unlikely

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [残局可能性低](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522463) by [ochiai (gamblers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamblers/pseuds/ochiai). 



> this fic was originally written in chinese. if you're able to read both translations fluently you'll probably notice some discrepancies between the two; they're maybe intentional (...or maybe i was just lazy, idk)

You cried while you stood behind him in the church that day. You didn’t care that people were staring; perhaps you were too happy to care. You were always so good at embarrassing him in public. Was today going to be any different?

“Oikawa.” He pulled you aside toward the end of the reception. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You didn’t understand. “If it’s for breaking your promise of having an open bar, then you should be sorry. What an excellent waste of a Napa Valley vineyard this has been. I hope you feel sorry forever, Iwa-chan!”

Later that day, you booked an early flight out of SFO.

Without meaning to, you grow your fingernails out in Argentina. Recently they’ve reached a length that makes you typo on every other text message you send. Today you’re memorizing a new jump serve when you feel your thumb catch on the seam of the practice ball, and following the rhythm of an irregular _thwack_ your thumbnail rips cleanly off at the cuticle. Excess rhythm drips onto the hardwood. Your libero stares at your hand. You stare at your hand too.

“Ow,” you say, eventually.

You get your thumb bandaged up in the club’s medical office and your trainer’s admonishments smoothed over by a glass of pinot noir at dinner. During the appetizer, the girl whom you are seeing asks after your injury.

“It’s mostly superficial,” you lie.

But she’s genuinely concerned. “You’re a setter with a missing fingernail. You should know better than me if that’s superficial or not.”

“You're right, it was my lifeline and now I’ve severed it,” you keep your voice light. “So I’ll be benched for the rest of the season. And then I won’t make the national team, my career will tank, and I’ll be back in Japan living off my parents before you even know it. Cheers to that!” 

She considers the prospect of such events, then leans back in her seat with a raised glass. “Wow, OK. Sorry I asked.”

The restaurant you’re at is her favorite; their special today is a stuffed grilled squid. From the way she’s cut her squid up into squares, you can tell she’s already lost her appetite. So she’s started to learn how to navigate your moods. It's been three months since you started seeing one another. You wonder when she will let you go.

Back home, you sit down with a glass of water. The bandage on your right thumb is starting to fray. Truthfully you're not worried in the slightest. Everything you know with one hand, you can also do with the other. In your early 20s you learned to play ambidextrously, with the sole intent of crushing a left-handed wing spiker. Whatever. That bastard is Tobio-chan’s problem now.

You engage in a fantasy infrequently, and it goes something like this: you come back to your apartment late after practice, to see the lights on in the kitchen. You find a plate of food on the counter covered by a plastic basket. A slip of paper on top of the plastic shows signs of his chicken scratch, dictating the grams of lean ground beef that he's cooked into this serving. You heat up the plate in the microwave and enjoy your meal in silence. The meat tastes bland because he’s still consistent about seasoning, so you reach over to throw some salt into the dish. Sometime later, he walks out of the bathroom with his hair still wet and a towel slung low around his waist. _Welcome home, Tooru,_ he says before he kisses you, dripping shower water all over your face and your clothes. You complain about getting wet. But you always kiss him back.

You pick up after the fifth ring.

“Oikawa.” His voice is _super_ low. You press the phone tighter to your ear.

“Hm?”

“You left the Bay early.”

“Well, yeah. To be honest, your wedding was boring.”

“I went looking for you after. You said you were going to stay for a few more days.” There’s a weird tone in his voice. Is he upset about something? “Feels like I barely got to see you.”

“Could’ve said something before I Ieft,” you shrug. “Is this all you wanted to call about?”

“Nothing, I was just… reminiscing.” He pauses. He’s biting his lip. You think about his lips, and lick your own. “Do you… do you ever wonder what it would be like if I’d come down with you to Argentina?”

You sigh. “That’s cruel, Iwa-chan. Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”

“…You’re right. It's been a long week; I think I'm just losing it. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. And about you coming down here, don’t think too hard on it. You know, there was only one thing I ever wished for both of us.”

“What’s that?”

He can’t see the expression on your face right now, which is good. “It was to play volleyball with Iwa-chan. And I got my wish, for many many years.”

“...That’s all you ever wanted?”

“All I ever wanted.”

“I see.” His voice is thick as he chokes back a laugh. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

The two of you are done playing volleyball together. So there you go, that’s why you booked an early flight out of SFO, and why he chose to leave for California first. If he hadn't left back then you’d have cried and told him how unfair he was, and then he’d have pretended that he wasn’t crying too and accused you of never caring for anything but you and your volleyball and you playing your volleyball. And because it’s Iwa-chan— well, he’s in his rights to believe that he knows you better than others do.

“Goodbye, Iwa-chan.”

“Goodbye, Tooru.”

In your infrequent fantasy, the two of you have sex. It’s not clear who initiates, although it doesn’t matter. You kiss him until your lips lose the feeling of his lips. He loves the way you moan and the low hum of your voice when your mouth is full of his cock. He fingers you open tenderly and fucks you hard. He loves the shudder that runs down your entire frame when he buries his dick in your ass. He loves the way you sit in his lap and ride him, loves it more when your arms start to shake and your fingers falter against the sheets. He loves the way you fuck him, loves how pretty you look when you're taking his cock. You’re so beautiful like this, messed up by your feelings for him, chewing on the endorphins leaking out of your mouth. Why he would willingly let this go, you don't know.

You still remember how he invited you to his wedding. How could you forget. He came to Buenos Aires for you personally. When you met him at the airport, he complained about the humidity. You complained about how he complained about the humidity, but before you could add to your list of complaints he was throwing his arms around you, and crushing all the bones out of your body.

“Missed you, Stupidkawa.” His breath was warm, so warm against the curve of your cheek. “Missed you so much.”

“This is embarrassing,” you hissed, and tried your best to extricate yourself from him as he laughed and held onto you tighter. He didn’t care that people were staring; perhaps he was too happy to care.

“Fine. Let’s go grab a drink. There’s something I want to share,” he starts, which is where the story ends for you both.

**Author's Note:**

> some extended notes on this story [here](https://splitpush.tumblr.com/post/634572905760636928). my twt is [here](https://twitter.com/harlots).
> 
> thanks for reading! xo


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